Stripped Bare
by Swellison
Summary: Written for a Christmas fic exchange. Dean kills a witch, but there are complications afterwards. Rated T for swearing and content.


A/N: Written for Ness as part of a Christmas fic exchange. We were instructed to write a story that was at least 400 words long, based on one of 2 or 3 prompts suggested by our assigned person. (I'll give her prompt at the end.) Hope everyone enjoys.

Stripped Bare

By Swellison

Dean turned the Impala onto the deserted Iowa highway, the three-quarter's moon following behind. Sam thought that it looked like a giant, unblinking cat's eye in the rear view mirror. He chuckled softly, imagining just what Dean would think of that kind of poetic image.

"Hah!" Dean snorted. "We smoked the bitch!"

"She's a witch."

"Tomatoes, to-mah-toes, witch, bitch. Same thing." Dean smiled a true shark's grin. "At least she wasn't spewing any body fluids. That's just--gross."

"She was certainly spewing words at you, though, Dean. Right up to the end." Sam heard again the gun shots as Dean had dispatched the witch--three times through the heart with consecrated rounds. Dean had been _mad_ at her. With good reason, Sam conceded, as he remembered being tossed into a wall. Sam rubbed his head. Honestly, he was tired of being intimately introduced to so many walls, bookcases and other sharp-edged furnishings in supernatural abodes.

He turned to Dean, startled to see that Dean was busily wriggling and squirming out of the right arm of his leather jacket as they cruised down the highway. Dean put his right hand back on the steering wheel and started shifting in the seat, removing his left hand from the wheel as he squirmed out of the other side of his jacket. "What're you doing, dude?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Sammy? I'm driving!" Dean jerked his head towards Sam, gazing intently at him. "Hey, did you hit your head worse than you said, back there?" Dean continued to shift and wriggle in his seat, now trying to remove his flannel overshirt. "Are you seeing double or something?"

"Pull over," Sam ordered, "NOW!" He didn't know what was going on with Dean, but something was definitely wrong. He knew that Dean habitually placed his own well-being second, but Dean wouldn't be deliberately obtuse when it mattered. Dean had no idea that he was peeling off his clothes as he drove, and Sam heard alarm bells, loud and clear.

Dean gingerly eased the Impala onto the shoulder and stopped the car. Switching off the ignition, he turned to Sam, left hand reaching to untuck his t-shirt from his jeans.

"Dean!" Sam grabbed his brother's hand, halting his progress in pulling off the t-shirt.

"Sam!" Dean growled. He looked pointedly at Sam's hand, wrapped firmly around his own wrist. "What the hell are you doing?" He shifted in his seat, feeling the uncomfortable and unexpected bulk of his leather jacket and flannel shirt bunched low between him and the seatback. "And what did you do to my clothes?"

Sam felt his eyes widen as he flung back, "Me? You're the one undressing behind the wheel. Why d'you think I had you pull over, Dean?"

"That's crazy!" Dean snorted, his right hand reaching for his belt and unbuckling it, since Sam still held his left one immobile.

"Dean! Look at what you're doing now." Sam pointed towards Dean's right hand, firmly clasping the belt end. Sam watched as Dean glanced downward, and then snatched his hand up, dropping the belt like it was a hot potato.

"Sammy!" Dean cursed. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know." Sam took a deep, calming breath. "But you shouldn't be driving now. Chinese fire-drill, bro." The passenger door creaked open and Sam stepped out. He quickly walked around the Impala's front end, listening for the opening creak of the other door. He didn't hear it, but, glancing through the windshield, he saw Dean slide over to the passenger seat. Good enough.

Sam pulled the driver's door open and slid in behind the wheel. His brief walk in the cold February air had cleared his head, and given him an idea. He turned to face Dean, who was settling into the seat and pulling his jacket tighter around him. That was a good sign, right?

"Hey." Sam waited until he had his brother's attention. "Did you hear what the witch was saying, back there?"

"Not really, I was busy pluggin' her."

"Dean—"

All of a sudden, Dean was shrugging his jacket off. Sam cursed at his brother's unexpected tendency to disrobe at the drop of a hat. Wait a minute, not the drop of a hat... "Dean?"

His older brother instantly stopped squirming out of the jacket. "What?"

"Eureka!" Sam muttered under his breath. "I know what happened. That witch put a spell on you."

"Sammy, for cryin' out loud—"

"She was pissed at you, and, with her dying breath, she cast a spell." Sam nodded, convinced. "It fits."

"Terrific."

"It's sort of like hypnosis – you don't even know you're doing it, when you're taking off your clothes. Just like people who cluck like a chicken."

"She put the whammy on me? Okay, genius, how come I'm not" – Dean grimaced –"stripping now?"

"Obviously, there's a trigger word."

"Obviously," Dean muttered darkly.

"And I think I know what it is!"

Sam watched as Dean's head tilted up and he met his older brother's piercing eyes. "What is it?"

Sam's exasperation slipped loose. "I can't _say_ it, or you'll—" he waved his hands vaguely in the air, accidentally bumping the steering wheel. "We need to get back to the motel." Sam started the Impala. "And talk to Bobby."

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"What d'you mean, 'Stay inside?'" Dean thundered.

Sam counted to ten. "I'm gonna sit in the Impala and call Bobby – a long conversation, with lots of words, including your trigger word."

"Damn it, Sammy, why can't you tell me what the friggin' word IS?"

"Because you'll only get mad" – Sam took in Dean's glaring eyes – "-der."

Dean continued to glower, his foot tapping—practically stomping—impatiently.

Sam sighed. "We screwed up—I screwed up, on the hunt. I got careless, and said it, and the witch overheard and used it to cast a spell on you."

Dean blinked. "I'm not following you, Sammy."

"Your name, that's the trigger word. I yelled for you when she threw me against the wall." Sam shook his head, not looking at Dean. "And she heard and used it to enspell you. I'm sorry."

"Okay. So now we know not to use our names in front of witches. Live and learn, bro." Sam felt Dean tap him on the arm. "Get your cell phone and go call Bobby. I want this fixed, now. And bundle up, it's cold out there."

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Dean was waiting for him when Sam stepped back into their room forty minutes later.

"Well?" his older brother questioned before Sam could even get his coat unzipped.

"Bobby told me how to break the spell."

Dean sighed in relief, stepped back into the room and plopped on his bed. "Good to know."

Sam eased his coat off, fingering the sleeve nervously before hanging it in the closet nook. "There are-ah, certain conditions that have to be met during the spell-breaking ritual."

"Conditions? Like what?" Sam heard the instant suspicion in his brother's voice.

"Ahhh... You remember that ritual we had to perform, naked under the moonlight?"

"We have to get naked?" Dean's mouth tightened into a thin line and Sam knew that he was mentally wishing he'd shot the whole clip of bullets into that infernal witch.

"Not us, just you."

"Wha-at? That's not fair!" Dean sulked.

Sam eyed their room, then crossed over to the table by the window and shoved it towards the wall, dragging the chairs along, too. "Bobby said it's probably an action figure spell – a simple, down and dirty casting. The figure is you, the action is undressing. You hear your name, you strip. Hear your name again, and you stop. Like a toggle button or an on-off switch."

"Well, that's freakin' swell. Still don't know why I have to be naked."

"This isn't a complicated spell—and the way to break it is to reverse it. Complete reversal. The goal of the spell is to strip you naked, so you start naked; I say the ritual and put your clothes back on." Sam finished in a rush, Dean's shocked eyes boring into him.

"Are you out of your freakin' mind, Sam?"

"Bobby did say it works better with a member of the opposite sex performing the ritual," Sam admitted. "So, Missouri or Ellen could do it, if you prefer."

Dean mulled that over for a few seconds. "What about Jo?"

"She's not a hunter—your words, not mine, dude. The ritual has to be performed by someone connected to you, who's very familiar with and believes in the supernatural. Bobby says, since we're family, I can do it, but if you'd rather have--"

"NO! Just no!" Dean made a face, like he'd sucked half a dozen lemons. "Get on with it, then."

Sam strode over to the window, pushed the horrid plaid curtains to the side, and raised the flimsy blind so it clung, rolled, to the top of the window shade. Moonlight streamed through the exposed window. He extracted a small spiral notebook from his jeans pocket, and checked that he could read the words by the available moonlight. "Come here."

Dean remained seated on his bed. "Nu-unh."

"The ritual has to be done by moonlight. You're lucky. The moon's big enough that we can stay inside."

"But the shades are up! People can see in!"

"Who?" Sam tried hard not to snarl, but he wasn't looking forward to this, either. "It's almost three a.m., no one's gonna see us. Now, get over here."

Dean reluctantly rose from his bed, and joined Sam in front of the bared window.

"Stand right there," Sam indicated the spot at the center of the window, where a moonbeam marked the carpet with its silver-white glow. "And strip."

Dean stood where indicated, his arms crossed firmly in front of him. "No freakin' way. You're making this up!" he accused.

Sam's understanding went out the window. "Dean—" he hissed, and Dean's arms magically unfolded, his hands latching onto the edges of his overshirt. He drew his hands back in opposite directions and shrugged the flannel shirt off, letting it fall to the floor.

Sam averted his eyes, gazing at the carpet as, a few seconds later, Dean's grey t-shirt joined the overshirt on the floor. Dean kept undressing, and his belt hit the floor next. Sam studiously kept his eyes on the floor, catching Dean's shadow blending into a half-pretzel shape as he removed his boots, and they clunked to the floor, one at a time. Then Sam heard the unmistakable sound of a zipper being undone.

Momentarily, Sam closed his eyes, knowing he was blushing. Then he forced them back open, knowing he had to keep track of his brother's progress. Dean's shadow bunched and flexed as he wriggled out of his jeans. The scrunched-up jeans joined the pile of discarded clothes heaped on the floor, followed shortly by two black socks. White briefs crowned the pile and Sam hastily spoke.

"Dean."

The second use of the trigger word stopped Dean's stripping cold—not that there was anything left to remove. Immediately, Sam pulled out his notebook and launched into the incantation, reciting the Latin he had painstakingly written down. Just as the last words faded into silence, Sam bent down to grab the briefs. He knelt in front of Dean, holding his brother's briefs open by the ends of the elastic band, eyes firmly on the floor. Dean's legs appeared in his line of vision as he stepped into his briefs. Sam's hands rose blindly, taking the briefs up until they met resistance. He yanked his hands off and snatched the two socks from the clothing pile. Wordlessly, he tapped Dean's right foot, waiting until it rose off the ground to slip the sock over it. He did the same with the left sock, and then awkwardly kept the routine going, sliding on Dean's jeans next. Sam was eternally grateful that Dean followed his lead in silence, even when he zipped up the jeans.

The hard part over, Sam stood up, grabbing Dean's t-shirt and quickly slipping it over Dean's head. His brother's arms cooperatively slipped through the armholes and Sam began to relax slightly. Sam picked up Dean's flannel shirt and belt, draping the shirt over his shoulder, as he stepped around to the front to thread the belt through the loops of Dean's jeans, then cinched the buckle. Lastly, he dropped down to the floor, retrieving Dean's boots. He slipped Dean's feet into the boots, and then rose.

Sam hastily stepped back, giving Dean some much-needed space. He searched his brother's face, gulped a hasty breath, and spoke the trigger word. "Dean?"

Dean's hands remained at his sides, making no attempt to remove his clothes. "Never speak of this again." His eyes met Sam's for a moment, and then Dean stalked over to the dresser, grabbed a pair of pajama bottoms from the top drawer and slammed into the bathroom.

"You're welcome," Sam muttered to the empty room.

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The prompt: Sam and/or Dean somehow get hypnotized and strip, or attempt to strip when he/they hear the trigger word.

I attempted to give a shout-out to Ness' hysterical Naked Under Moonlight, but she set that story in fourth season, and this is a second season romp. Guess Sam was referring to some other ritual where they had to be skyclad;-)


End file.
